In my reveries, I am a monk in the temple of love from the books written with shadows

In my reveries, I am a monk in the temple of love from the books written with shadows, Sailing through the endless pages, I let myself be carried by the breath of destiny of fragile heroes. They who heal their loves with a divine piety, Like the keepers of mysteries - isn't it the right of every being? They raise them in a fan of breeze, consume them in dances on dew's tips, They spin under drops of sky, with the echo of symphony on the canvas of scattered clouds. A scene detached from romances, where petals compose a celestial carpet, And nostalgic, slender murmurs intertwine with the veil of evening in chords of vastness. Fingers intertwined, carving astral paths, white morning words carried by the dawn's breeze, Embraces of daylight and the coffee that bursts aromas beside morning prayers of rounded dreams. But when the story ends and reality reclaims its throne, I look behind me and see nothing but ruins of glass and scaffolds of dreams. The blood of bloomed failures on the floor of my soul like a field abandoned after battle, Grows in shades of changing despair, a morbid carnival with lights that do not falter. For love now seems to me a desert of words without shadows, A weave that tickles my senses in a bitter, deaf sarabande. A feeling unprecedented, among foreign hues, A sweetness overturned across the threshold of a heart that cannot defend itself. Echoes of despair reflect off the eternal walls, An ode of pain where the past seeks a forgotten chalice to rewrite its destiny. This is not just a sanctuary, but a labyrinth of solitude, A habitat not to find, but to wander lost among the echoes that leave no trace. And as the hours pour before the curtain of darkness, I remain a mystic lost in romances, when the world sleeps and I watch over the ruins of hope.